One Magical Sunday Read online

  Overall, I’m heading into the final round of this major more at ease that I ever have been in the past. I don’t feel the usual anxiety. Actually, I haven’t felt any all year. Last night, Amy and I talked at length about it. We were just very calm. We felt things were different. For some reason, we both had a belief that I was going to come through—that today was going to be one magical Sunday.

  Acknowledgments

  We’d like to thank Larry Kirshbaum and Rick Wolff at the Time Warner Book Group for their insight, encouragement, and enthusiasm during this project. Steve Loy and Bob Barnett, our agents, are the best in the world at what they do and deserve credit for pulling everything together as quickly as they did.

  We are also indebted to the following people for their insights, interviews, and support: Mary and Philip Mickelson, Sr., Tina Mickelson, Tim Mickelson, Renee and Gary McBride, Steve Loy, Jim (Bones) Mackay, Dave Pelz, Rick Smith, Amanda Mickelson, Sophia Mickelson, Evan Mickelson, Hevin ZaZa, and T. R. Reinman. At the Time Warner Book Group, we would also like to thank Jason Pinter, Bob Castillo, Thomas Whatley, and Jim Spivey, as well as Ellen Rosenblatt of SD Designs.

  A very special acknowledgment must go to Amy Mickelson, who participated in every step of the writing, editing, and creative process. She’s a full partner in this effort. Thanks, Amy.

  Phil Mickelson

  Don Phillips

  1

  Tea Olive

  Par 4

  435 yards

  Slight Dogleg Right

  Stepping onto the first tee, I shake hands with the marshal in the green jacket and he hands me Chris DiMarco’s scorecard. I keep my partner’s score, he keeps mine. Chris and I then have a brief conversation about what brand and number balls we are going to play.

  I’m pretty calm and looking forward to the day. But I want to get off a decent first shot. Most golfers typically don’t play the first four holes very well. They try to hit the ball too hard, often miss the fairway, and end up making bogeys. They have to fight back in the middle of the round and then their scores improve. I’m determined not to go out too hard so that doesn’t happen.

  Chris has the honors and hits first. “Fore, please,” says the marshal. “Chris DiMarco now driving.” He drives it in the bunker on the right side of the fairway—not a good place to be. Now it’s my turn.

  “Fore, please. Phil Mickelson now driving.”

  There is some applause. I tip my visor, take a couple of practice swings, then stand behind my ball and look down the fairway. Unknown to me, the television broadcast is flashing a graphic up on the screen (just in case anybody forgets):

  Most Career Wins

  WITHOUT A MAJOR

  Harry Cooper

  41

  MacDonald Smith

  24

  Phil Mickelson

  22

  The key to the first hole is the fairway bunker on the right. It’s a 300-yard carry and I don’t want to risk flying over it because I’ll be left with a very tough shot (just as DiMarco has). I just want to hit it in the fairway. So I’m going to make sure that, if I miss it, I miss it left—even though driving too far to the left may catch the trees. One thing I’ve worked on all year, however, is taking the right side out of play. I decide to hit a fade (right to left for a left-handed golfer). It’s a tight shot for me.

  As I step up to the ball, my feet are aimed directly at the bunker. I hit the ball well, but I actually fade it a bit too far (a rush of adrenaline, I guess). The ball takes a huge bounce to the left, plunks against a tree trunk, bounces back, and comes to rest in some pine straw. I think I’ll be okay. I should have a shot to the green.

  As I walk off the first tee, I’m not overly nervous or excited. I’m looking forward to the day.

  Okay, here we go. This is the beginning.

  On June 16, 1970, my parents sent out an interesting birth announcement. On the front cover, there was a sketch of a baby with a golf bag slung over his shoulder and a golf green with a little yellow flagstick stuck in it. “Introducing the Mickelsons’ ‘fourth,’” it said. Inside, the announcement read as follows:

  Philip Alfred hurried to join the Mickelson threesome on the first tee at Mercy Hospital for a 3:45 p.m. starting time on June 16, 1970. Using all of his 8 lbs, 13 ounces in a powerful swing, Philip proudly equaled his height with a tee shot of 21 inches. Philip’s first message: “Let’s play golf at my new home in San Diego.”

  As you might be able to guess, golf was my father’s passion in life. Dad was also a top athlete in his day—an Olympic caliber snow skier, a competition water skier, and a gymnast. He was a fighter pilot in the Navy, flew with the Blue Angels, and was an instructor for the best pilots in the service. Dad also had a teaching degree, but when I was born he was a pilot for a major airline. People tell me that I get my analytical mind from my him—and my sense of humor from my mother. Mom was a nurse and ran her own health care business. She’s always been very intuitive, incredibly fun, and just loves practical jokes. My sister, Tina, was nearly two when I was born. And seven years later, my brother, Tim, was born. That completed our immediate family. But our extended family was much bigger—with lots of grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. And everybody lived in San Diego.

  When I was about 18 months old, and starting to walk fairly well, my dad would take me out into the back yard while he chipped golf balls (we had a good-sized back yard). He would stand near the house in this little area that he had fashioned to look like a tee box. In order to keep an eye on me, he’d sit me down right across from him—just far enough out of range of the clubs. I’d sit there and play with the golf balls. And when my dad would run out, I was reluctant to give him another one to hit because I liked playing with them so much. When all the balls were gone, we’d go get them all, come back, and I’d watch my dad chip them again.

  We did that together for about three or four months—my dad chipping and me sitting right across from him watching. Then, just before I turned two, he cut down a right-handed wood short enough for me to swing. Then he had me stand in front of him, and set me up to hit the ball. “Okay, Philip,” he said stepping back. “Now, you can hit it.”

  “Yay!” I said excitedly. Then I went across to my spot, re-gripped the club left-handed, and took a whack at the ball.

  My father is one of the most patient men I’ve ever met—and I think it comes naturally to him. “Well, that was a pretty good swing,” he said, “but we’ve got a right-handed club, so come back over here.”

  So he set me up again and said: “Okay, go ahead and hit it.” And I went right back over to the other side and hit it left-handed again. It just seemed more natural for me to hit the ball left-handed. Besides, I really wanted to be the mirror image of my dad. And he will tell you that my swing was so fundamentally sound that he decided not to mess around with it. “We’ll just change the golf club instead,” he told my mom.

  He took the club over to his workbench and, by sawing and grinding for a while, turned the back into the front and the front into the back. After finishing and lacquering it, I now had my new favorite toy (a left-handed kids club)—and I absolutely wore it out. (By the way, I’ve always been naturally right-handed. Virtually the only thing I do left-handed is swing a golf club.)

  My mom tells me that, at this age, I was just mesmerized with my golf balls. At night before I went to sleep, I’d arrange them just so on my bed, and then I’d sleep with them—along with Flopsy, my stuffed dog, and my special blanket. When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I wanted to do was go out in the back yard and hit my golf balls. So I’d be trying to carry all these golf balls down the stairs and they would fall out of my arms and go bounding down the stairs to the floor. And the sound of those bouncing golf balls was how my mom always knew I was awake and out of bed each morning.

  By age three and a half, I had learned that the night before my dad was going to play golf, he would stand his golf bag next to the front door. Well, when he’d get up the ne
xt morning, he’d find my little set of four clubs next to his because I would put them there on purpose. Then I’d go up to him and ask: “Dad, can I go with you to the big golf course and play?” But he always said no because he didn’t think there was a chance of ever being able to get a kid so young on the course.

  After asking to go along a bunch of times—and always receiving the same answer—I decided that if they weren’t going to let me play golf, I was going to run away from home. So I enlisted my little buddy next door, Chris Peters—and one morning we just took off. I slung my little golf bag over my shoulder, picked up Flopsy and my favorite blanket, grabbed my tiny suitcase (which was filled with nothing more than golf balls) and headed down the street with Chris.

  Chris’s mom saw us and immediately called one of the neighbors, Anita Philpot. “You know,” she said, “I think Chris and Philip have run away from home. And I think they’re going to the golf course.”

  So Mrs. Philpot came outside and asked us where we were going.

  “We ran away from home!” I said. “And, ummm, we’re going to the golf course.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Mrs. Philpot?” I said.

  “Yes, Philip?”

  “How do we get to the golf course?”

  “Well, you go down to the corner here and you turn left and just keep following that road.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Philpot. Bye.”

  It turned out that the road Mrs. Philpot advised us to take just went around in a big circle and led us right back to my house. And of course, both our mothers were waiting for us in the driveway.

  After that episode, my dad had a change of heart about taking me to the big golf course.

  If Philip wanted to be on the big golf course that bad, then I figured we should at least try to get him on. Besides, I didn’t want to see him run away again.

  Phil Mickelson, Sr., Phil’s Dad

  So the next weekend, when my dad, my grandfather, and one of their friends went to play golf, I tagged along as the last member of the foursome. When we got to the golf course, they all had to do some pretty fast talking.

  “Yes, he has his own golf clubs.”

  “Yes, he can keep up.”

  “No, he won’t get tired.”

  “No, he won’t run away from us.”

  Finally the manager at Balboa Municipal Golf Course said, “Okay, he can play.”

  At the first hole, I’d hit the ball a little ways down the fairway. Then I’d pick up my tiny four-club golf bag, run up to the ball, set my clubs down, hit the ball again, pick up my clubs, and run off again.

  After two holes of this, I turned to my father. “Dad,” I said, “can you carry these clubs for me? It’s just taking too much time to pick them up and put them down.” And he said: “Sure, I can do that.”

  So for the entire round, that’s the way it went. I was running and hitting, running and hitting, running and hitting—until we got to the middle of the 18th fairway. This hole was a long par five and the rest of the way was all uphill. In fact, this stretch was such a long, tiring uphill walk that the golfers had nicknamed it “Cardiac Hill.” It was at this point I stopped and looked up at my dad.

  “Dad,” I said, “I don’t want to play this hole?”

  “Why don’t you want to play?” he asked.

  “Isn’t this the last hole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if we play this hole, then we’ll be all done.”

  My son didn’t want to play the 18th hole, not because he was tired, as I first assumed, but simply because he did not want to be finished with our round of golf. Of course, I told him that we had to play it—and he ran right up Cardiac Hill in front of us with the same amount of energy he’d shown all day long.

  And I remember thinking to myself: “This kid is just destined to play golf.”

  Phil Mickelson, Sr.

  My drive off the #1 tee has come to rest in the pine needles about three feet to the right of the tree it hit. But the ball is sitting up nicely and, because I’m a lefty, I have plenty of room for my stance. If I were right-handed, I’d have a real problem on this shot. I’ve got 127 yards to the green and I can see the flag.

  Usually, the officials at Augusta National put the pin on the top shelf or in the back of the green. But today, they have it on the right side in a low area. It’s in a perfect spot to make birdie because all the balls will funnel right down to the hole. Interestingly enough, most of the pin placements have been set up for potential birdies today. The course is not going to play as tough as it did during Thursday’s first round. I guess Augusta officials wanted to see some fireworks today. And the pin placement on #1 is set up to get the guys off to a quick start.

  My only problem with this shot is a couple of low hanging tree limbs right in front of me. Rather than hit the ball in a big arcing circle around them, I decide to take a 6 iron, hit a low chip-runner, and go under the limbs. And I hit a terrific shot—on the green only twelve feet from the hole.

  I’ve played this pin position only one other time in competition and, as I’m lining up the putt, I’m unsure of just how far it will break. Sure enough, it breaks a little bit more than I judge. I miss it to the right by a half an inch and leave it a foot from the hole. Then I tap in for a par 4.

  I’m not nervous or overly concerned. It was a chance for me to get off to a good start—but I have a couple of par fives coming up that I can birdie.

  Chris DiMarco made a great shot out of the fairway bunker and also parred the hole. We’re still tied for the lead. Here’s how things stand after #1.

  PLAYER

  SCORE

  HOLE

  Phil Mickelson

  -6

  1

  Chris DiMarco

  -6

  1

  Bernhard Langer

  -5

  2

  Ernie Els

  -4

  2

  Paul Casey

  -4

  2

  K. J. Choi

  -3

  2

  Vijay Singh

  -1

  6

  Nick Price

  -1

  5

  Kirk Triplett

  -1

  3

  Davis Love III

  E

  6

  2

  Pink Dogwood

  Par 5

  575 yards

  Dogleg Left

  This is one of the toughest driving holes at Augusta. A very tight, right to left hole—but the green is reachable in two. Definitely an opportunity to make birdie. I must be careful, however. In last year’s final round, I hit it in the hazard, took a penalty stroke, and turned a likely bogey into a miraculous birdie. I don’t want to tempt fate again. There’s a bunker on the right side of the fairway here also—about 300 yards out. I’m going to aim right at it and hit a little fade.

  My swing feels good and the ball does just what I want it to do. It travels 300 yards and lands right in the middle of the fairway. When I get out there, I notice, once again, that there is an easy pin placement—back right in a low spot. It’s downhill and 269 yards to the hole. I can make it with a three-wood. But I don’t want to miss this shot to the right because it’s a much more difficult up and down from there. So I’ve just got to be left. There are two very deep front greenside bunkers on this hole. I’m going to aim at the one on the right side, try to cut the ball (a sharp right-to-left fade) so that it lands right in the middle of the green, and let it funnel down to the hole. If it goes in the bunker, it won’t be a problem. It’s not a difficult shot.

  My swing feels really good, but I hit the ball too long and too far to the left. It rolls off the green and into the first row of spectators. Not my best effort. Now I have a tough shot to get up and down for birdie. My playing partner, Chris DeMarco, with whom I’m tied for the l
ead, is in good shape, though. He’s got a pretty easy chip shot and probably will make birdie.

  Walking down the fairway to the second green, I’m thinking I want to have fun today. I’m going to enjoy working with Bones, my caddy. And I’m going to make an effort to talk to Chris.. I don’t want this day to be heavy and intense. I want it to be light. I want to have fun.

  When I was eight years old, my father and I were playing an afternoon nine-hole round of golf—as we often did after I got out of school. On one of the early holes, I made a bad shot and slammed my club on the ground in disgust. Dad looked at me kind of funny and must have thought to himself, “Gee, I’ve never seen that before.” When it happened again a couple of shots later, he stopped me. “Philip, what’s going on here?” he asked. “You look like you’re not having fun. You’re banging your golf club—and it looks like you don’t want to play.”

  “Nahh, I’m having fun, Dad,” I said.

  “Well, that doesn’t look very nice. And it sure looks like you’re not having fun. If we’re out here on the golf course, this is supposed to be fun. Don’t do that anymore. And if you damage your clubs, don’t look for me to replace them.”

  So we played several more holes and, on the 7th green, I missed a putt and slammed my club down again.

  “Philip, you’re obviously not having fun,” said my dad. “So put your golf clubs in your golf bag. And you can walk along with me until you can start having fun.”

  Dad then played the 8th hole and I walked along. Well, when he was pulling his ball out of the cup, I reached up and tugged his shirt.